Devon looked over at Cecily. She shuddered.
“Well, I’ll give it a shot, Mrs. Crandall.”
“That’s all I ask.” She sighed. “We all have our responsibilities here. That could be part of yours. I want to make sure no harm comes to Alexander. That he is safe.”
Devon thought her words odd. “What kind of harm, Mrs. Crandall?”
Cecily piped up. “From himself. He’s crazy.” She laughed, leaning into Devon, speaking close to his ear. “He’s got little friends that only he can see.”
“Most children do,” Devon said.
“The problem,” Cecily went on, still leaning into Devon, “is in this house, you can never be sure what’s his imagination and what’s real.”
“Now, Cecily,” Mrs. Crandall said.
But her daughter continued addressing Devon. “I’m sure our friendly villagers warned you about our ghosts.”
“Well, as a matter of fact—”
“Which ones did they tell you about?” Cecily asked. “I’m sure they told you about old Jackson. He’s our most famous ghost. A warlock, people say. He used to put on these really freaky magic shows for the kids in the village—”
“Cecily, stop this,” her mother commanded.
Her daughter ignored her. “Then there’s Jackson’s wife, Emily—so tragic.” Cecily stood up, pointing to the portrait over the mantel, the solemn-looking man in a gray frock coat and muttonchop sideburns, brooding within the gilt frame. “And that’s our founder, the great Horatio Muir, right there. You’ll find all of them howling through the corridors on stormy nights like this!”
Mrs. Crandall sighed and walked over to the window, as if giving up on Cecily, apparently having been there before and knowing it was useless to try and rein her in.
“Over there is poor Emily,” Cecily said, pointing. Devon turned around. On the far wall, a portrait of a woman stared into eternity. She was lovely, delicate, and blonde, looking kind of like Marilyn Monroe, Devon thought. There was a sadness that emanated from her large round eyes. “She fell to her death from Devil’s Rock.”
“I was told she jumped,” Devon said.
“How the villagers like to sensationalize our family tragedies,” Mrs. Crandall told him, turning away from the window.
“I’ll give you a complete tour tomorrow,” Cecily whispered, leaning in toward him again. “I’ll give you the full version on all the legends.”
Her mother gave her a look. “I’m sure Devon would like to wash up and see his room and get some sleep,” Mrs. Crandall said. “We can become more acquainted in the morning.”
“Actually, I am pretty tired,” Devon acknowledged.
They all moved back into the foyer. Devon’s bag still sat there.
“Simon didn’t take your bag upstairs,” Mrs. Crandall said, frowning. “Where could he be?”
“I haven’t seen him all day,” Cecily told her. “If I had, I would’ve remembered to pick up Devon.”
Mrs. Crandall’s frown hardened. “Simon is our servant, Devon. He’s usually very efficient. It’s not like him to let a guest’s bag sit unattended.”
“You know,” Devon said, “I think I may have seen him. There was a man standing outside on the tower when I came up the drive. Might that have been him?”
“That would be impossible,” Mrs. Crandall replied. “The tower is part of the East Wing. As I told you, that part of the house has been closed off for years.”
“But I’m sure I saw a man—”
“That would have been impossible, Devon,” Mrs. Crandall repeated.
“Well, there was a light. I know I saw a light in the tower.”
Her look told him he was being absurd. She smiled. “There was lightning on the horizon,” she insisted. “Light can be reflected in the most uncanny ways.”
Seeming to punctuate her point, lightning crackled suddenly, illuminating the room, followed by a horrible burst of thunder. Cecily laughed.
“You’ll get used to the storms up here, Devon,” Cecily told him. “Sometimes they go on for days.”
Indeed, the storm wasn’t over for that night yet. Devon carried his own bag upstairs, having said good night to Mrs. Crandall in the foyer. Cecily showed him to his room: a comfortable space with large windows that looked out over the sea. The four-poster bed was already turned down for him, and a candle burned beside it.
“So I’ll introduce you to all my friends at school,” Cecily was saying as she sat down on the bed. “Don’t worry. You’ll fit in fine. You can be my boyfriend now that I’ve broken up with D.J.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said I’d introduce you to my friends. After school, we usually—”
“No,” Devon said, interrupting her. “What was the part about me being your boyfriend?”
“Well, I’m single now, so the timing is perfect.”
Devon laughed. This girl really thought way too highly of herself. Yes, she was pretty—very pretty, in fact. Devon couldn’t deny that he liked very much the sight of her sitting there on the bed, her sexy legs crossed and swinging, her pink skirt inching up her thighs. Her green eyes sparkled, her red hair shone with golden highlights. And for a fifteen-year-old she was already quite busty, which she showed off by wearing a snug, stretchy top.
But Cecily was nothing like Suze, who was sweet and a little shy and would never have worn such a short skirt. Devon and Suze had never officially been boyfriend and girlfriend, but still, ever since he’d left Coles Junction, Devon had been thinking about her, and missing her more than he expected. Until he’d lost reception on his phone, he’d been texting Suze the whole time he’d been on the bus, describing his journey step-by-step. So Cecily Crandall had some nerve to announce that Devon was now her boyfriend, just like that.
“What if I don’t want to be your boyfriend?” he asked.
For the second time that night she looked at him as if he were mad. “Wait, are you gay? Because if you are, it’s cool. My friend Marcus is gay and I could fix you up with him—”
“I’m not gay,” Devon told her.
She made a face of utter confusion. “So then what possible reason would you have for not wanting to be my boyfriend?”
“I don’t work that way, Cecily. I know it may be a radical concept for you to understand, but I like having some say in who I decide to date.” He smirked. “Just a little idiosyncrasy of mine, I guess.”
“Well, the offer isn’t going to be good for long,” she said, sticking out her lower lip. “Just so you know.”
“I appreciate the fair warning,” he told her, setting his suitcase on a nightstand and snapping it open.
“I mean, if you’re pissed at me about having to take a cab all the way here—”
“I’m not pissed,” Devon said, removing his shirts and socks from his suitcase and placing them in drawers of the bureau. “In fact, I didn’t take a cab all the way. I got the cab at a place called Stormy Harbor, where the bartender said she knew you.”
“Oh, yeah, Andrea. She’s cool. She sometimes lets me in even on nights when they have an age limit so I can see some of the acts that come through here in the summer.” Cecily sat forward on the edge of the bed just as something seemed to dawn on her. “So, wait. If you got the cab at Stormy Harbor, how did you get there from the bus station?”
Devon didn’t make eye contact with her as he continued unpacking his suitcase. “I got a ride from a man who said he was a friend of the family’s,” he said. “Something told me I shouldn’t tell your mother, though.”
“Who was it?”
“Rolfe Montaigne.”
Thunder crashed again, as the storm turned for a second round of attack. Cecily burst into laughter, covering her mouth to calm herself.
“What’s so funny?” Devon asked.
“Just that Rolfe would have the nerve to say he’s a friend of the family. Your instincts were right, Devon. Don’t tell Mother that Rolfe Montaigne gave you a ride.”
“Why?”
“Because she’ll boot you out of here, no questions asked.” Cecily was evidently pleased by this bit of news. “Rolfe is hot. I’d totally go for him if I was older.”
“Why does your mother not like him? Did he really kill a kid?”
Cecily hopped off her bed. “Okay, I’ve talked way too much. If Mother came by and heard me blabbing about Rolfe, she’d throttle me. I mean … that’s the one name you can’t say in this house.”
“Now you’ve really got my curiosity going,”
“And that’s a shame, isn’t it?” She headed out of the room, turning in the doorway to look back at Devon. “I could probably tell such deep dark secrets to my boyfriend, but to a perfect stranger, no, I don’t think so.” She blew Devon a kiss. “Night, night,” she said, and disappeared down the hall.
Devon undressed, wishing the power was on so that he could plug in his computer—its battery was dead from the long bus ride—and see if Suze had written to him. She must have been wondering why Devon had just so abruptly stopped texting her. Maybe Tommy had written, too, telling him how Max was adjusting to living with him. Suddenly Devon missed his little Yorkie very much.
He brushed his teeth by candlelight in the attached bathroom and then, exhausted, slipped between the sheets. It was a comfortable bed, bigger and softer than what he’d had at home, but still sleep did not come easily. The storm remained fierce, a maelstrom that seemed to have descended upon the village and gotten trapped, spewing out its fury and frustration on everyone below. The shutters outside his window crashed and banged; wind howled through the eaves of the old house; lightning lit up his room at regular intervals. Devon lay wide awake, the eyes of Muir ancestors looking down upon him from their portraits on the walls.
Each time he began to doze off, a thunderclap would awaken him. In one such moment, as he hovered in those tenuous seconds between sleep and wakefulness, he saw the figure of a man standing among the shadows at the foot of his bed. He sat up at once, trying to focus his eyes.
“Who’s there?” he asked.
There was no one. But the heat had suddenly shot through the roof. A dank, damp pressure hummed at him, a whining vibration. His sheets were drenched.
It was like this last spring, Devon recalled. The pressure. The high-pitched whine. It had been the most terrifying night of his life, a night he’d been mostly successful in forgetting. But this was how it had begun, with the heat and the pressure. It had ended with Devon bruised and bloodied, but with a demon vanquished.
“Trust your instincts,” his father had taught him. “Your body will follow.”
The creature that had attacked him that night last spring had been far more cunning than the one who had visited years before, when Devon was six. This one had arrived not through his closet, with reptilian eyes blinking in the dark, but instead had walked casually through the door of his bedroom, in the guise of Devon’s father. Devon had been reading a graphic novel on his bed and had looked up to see his father come into the room—except Devon knew his father never just walked in without knocking first, and besides, his father was at the grocery store—
“Dad?”
The thing had turned on him then: great yellow eyes and dripping fangs, Dad’s form literally melting away in the angry rush of the demon’s passion. It had lunged at Devon; he’d fought back with pure instinct. The creature’s talons had sliced his shoulder and ripped an inch-deep gorge in his thigh, but Devon had prevailed, landing a powerhouse blow in the beast’s gut and sending it spiraling back into its Hell Hole. It had come for him—cannier, shrewder than the others—but still Devon had won.
It was happening again, he realized now.
Another one was close by.
They’ve followed me here.
Or, rather, I’ve found where they come from …
His heart began to thud in his chest. The room seemed to spin. Devon kicked off his sheets and tried to steady his vision, but he was caught in the rotation of the room. He began to feel dizzy.
With great effort, he swung his legs off the side of the bed. This was worse than last time. Far worse. The heat and the pressure had never been this intense before. Something was happening. He could feel it. Sweat began to pop from his forehead, running down his face. His t-shirt clung to his chest and under his pits. He forced himself to stand, but he faltered, nearly losing his balance.
“I am stronger than they are,” Devon said out loud, trying hard to believe it.
A dull, low roar filled the room. At first, behind the wind and rain and thunder, it was difficult to perceive, but it grew louder and more distinct. Surely the whole house could hear it. Cecily, Mrs. Crandall … surely they would come running. Devon grasped one of the posts of his bed, and concentrated as hard as he could. Maybe he could stop it in its tracks. He’d done that before. Only twice had he actually come face to face with them: every other time when he’d felt the pressure building or seen the eyes in the night, he’d managed to concentrate and send them away. With a raise of his hand he’d made his armoire slide across the room or his closet doors swing shut. He’d been able to silence the demonic whispering, make the terror dissolve.
But it hadn’t worked the time the demon disguised as Dad had so casually breezed into his room. There had been no warning then; that creature had been far too clever for that. Devon had had to fight him, punching and kicking, throwing moves he’d never been taught to do, finding that his limbs somehow responded to the situation at hand with a precision that both surprised and awed him.
This time, however, he could feel the demon coming—but even with a warning, he knew he couldn’t send it away. He had never felt anything like this. What forces had he disturbed by coming into this house? The roar grew louder; the room kept spinning. Devon feared this would be the worst he’d ever experienced: a demon more terrifying, more powerful than ever before.
Suddenly his windows swung inward, the full fury of the storm invading his room.
Devon raised his arms, but it did no good. The windows did not shut.
All at once the room smelled fetid and foul, like the stink of a swamp, like decomposing animals.
“Who’s here?” Devon called out, as the lightning flashed again.
The roar was deafening now. Devon clamped his hands over his ears to block out its noise.
From the window came the source of the roar: a figure—a creature—something Devon couldn’t describe. Small at first, but growing larger—closer—it came out of the swirling rain and wind. A thing—of unspeakable hideousness—great green eyes and sharp pointed teeth and a long, wet, slithering tongue—
“No!” Devon shouted. “Back off! Get the hell away from me!”
The demon landed on its six feet. It panted hungrily, its tumor-covered tongue nearly reaching the floor.
“Go back to hell,” Devon said, springing from his bed and landing a swift kick at the creature’s cranium. Once again his body was responding instinctively, without any consciousness on Devon’s part.
The demon roared and leapt back at him. Devon deflected it with a swing of his forearm, surprised again by his strength. “Maybe you weren’t listening, you pile of puke!” Devon shouted. “I said, go to hell!”
The thing hesitated this time, but then pounced again. Devon landed a punch right in its snout, cracking a couple of its sharp teeth. “I am stronger than you! Get that through your ugly head!”
In rage and frustration, the demon reared up on its hind legs and roared. But it did not lunge again. Instead, it leapt back out into the night.
The room stopped spinning. The heat died down. The night was quiet, except for the steady pounding of the rain.
Devon let out a long breath. He could feel his body trembling. It was only afterwards that he could feel how scared he really was. He approached the window, pulling the panes shut and latching them together.
He turned, waiting for someone to bang on his door and ask what in heaven—or hell—had just happened in there. Surely the
n Mrs. Crandall would have to reveal what she knew.
But no one came knocking.
They didn’t hear, the Voice told him. It came for you and you only.
Devon understood that now. It was his presence in this house that caused whatever it was to leave its Hell Hole. Whatever forces had haunted him since he was a boy were infinitely stronger here.
This is where they live, the Voice told him.
“And they don’t want me living here, too,” Devon said to himself.
His heart still thudding in his chest, Devon sat down on the side of his bed.
I can’t face these things without Dad. This is way too much. I can’t do this alone, no matter how many answers I might find.
But how could he leave? Mrs. Crandall was now his legal guardian. And where would he go? What would stop the creatures from following him?
That was when the thought struck him: Dad wouldn’t have sent me here if he felt I’d be in any real danger. Dad knew this was where I’d find the truth about myself.
“Always remember, Devon,” Dad had said, the first time Devon had gotten really frightened by the eyes in his closet. “No matter what happens, no matter what you see, no matter where you are. You are stronger than any of it. Never forget that, son. Never.”
“I haven’t, Dad,” Devon said quietly now, and let out a long breath.
He actually felt just the slightest bit cocky. He’d fought off that thing without so much as even a cut this time. How he was able to fight like that, he wasn’t sure—he had never received any kind of martial arts training, not even karate lessons as a kid—but he was sure of something else: he really was stronger than any of it.
Finally, he drifted off to sleep, and his mind would later recall a series of images: Ravenscliff etched against the night sky, the figure of the man watching him from the tower, Rolfe Montaigne’s hot breath in his face saying, “I killed a young boy just like you.” In his dream, Rolfe had him backed into a corner. There was nowhere to run. Devon could feel the man’s warm breath on his face as he had earlier in the car. His eyes, as green as those in his closet, burned into his soul.
Sorcerers of the Nightwing (Book One - The Ravenscliff Series) Page 5
